


yes and no

by youatemytailor



Category: Black Sails
Genre: M/M, ROUNDABOUT CONVERSATIONS ABOUT HOW MUCH THEY LOVE EACH OTHER, jewish silver, listen this is all molly's fault, roundabout conversations about silver's cock, roundabout conversations about silver's past, silver: i'm no one from no where; silver's cock: Remember Who You Are
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-04-10
Updated: 2018-04-10
Packaged: 2019-04-21 07:39:20
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,903
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14280177
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/youatemytailor/pseuds/youatemytailor
Summary: "I can sit for an oil painting if you like,” Silver says with a grin.





	yes and no

**Author's Note:**

> me, crying: this started out as a funny joke

"I can sit for an oil painting if you like,” Silver says with a grin, and Flint jumps in his seat.   

He hadn't realized he’d been staring. Which ordinarily would be embarrassing, getting caught watching a man’s cock as he pissed. But Flint is exhausted. He's just been deposed, there's a bullet hole in his  _fucking shoulder_ , and he's about to attempt to do something Miranda would rightly kill him for if she knew. Actually, he's about to do something that is probably going to get him killed long before she even gets a chance, so. 

There is very little time for embarrassment at the moment. 

 _Also_ , not that it matters, but Silver's cock is—

Flint squints against the sun, craning his neck to see better. “What’s wrong with it?” 

Instantly Silver's stupid grin slips. He looks down his front, then back at Flint, a little panicked. "What do you mean?" 

"Why does it look so—" 

It is precisely this moment that Dufresne chooses to reappear on the beach with the crew. Silver hastily finishes, covers himself up, and Flint promptly forgets they ever had this conversation. 

* * *

If someone were to ask how they ended up here, Flint would likely be at a loss to answer. Truthfully he wouldn't know where to begin.

In some sense, he supposes it began when they first met. Began when Silver first looked at him in the eye and grinned like a lamb willingly going to its own slaughter. When Silver walked in to see Flint clutching Hal's dead body and didn't even flinch. When he pulled Flint out of the fucking sea, even though all Flint wanted to do was drown.

It ended when Miranda died. It ended when Silver  _lied_ , and began anew as they stood back to back in a dinghy, resolved to look death in the eye and cheat it as it watched. In some sense—in all the ways that mattered, anyway—it began in a cramped little cage. When Silver begged him to stay. To live. When afterwards he listened to Flint unburden himself of a weight that had suffocated him, crushed him,  _mutilated_  him for years; that's when Flint could feelit, at any rate. He felt it as he watched Silver listen to it all, watched him nod silently as though he understood, watched him say, "I am genuinely sorry," knowing that he meant it, knowing that he'd always mean it thereafter.  

That's when Flint knew. That's also when he resolved never to speak of it again. 

In hindsight this is probably where they were heading all along. Flint can see it now, clear as day—like the threads of a story being told, stretching back weeks,  _months;_ God fucking knows how long. He supposes it doesn't really matter  _when_ it began, only that it did, and only that it has lead them here, to the top of this hill; Flint on the ground with Silver on top of him, his mouth so eager against Flint's own. Silver's hot hand on the side of his neck, his other palming at Flint's cock roughly through his trousers until he moans, right into Silver's ear. 

He can feel Silver grin at that and then, he pulls back just enough to look Flint in the eye. A moment later Silver's expression shifts, growing concerned. His hand goes still.

“Where are you?" he asks, and it's all Flint can do not to crumple under the weight of that question alone. 

"I'm here," Flint says, arching up to meet Silver's lips again. "I'm here, I'm  _here—_ "

He rolls them over, kicking up sand into the air, mindful of Silver's leg always. When their eyes meet again Silver is smiling _—_ broad and breathless and greedy, as though he's won some grand fucking prize _—_ and Flint kisses him hard, knocks their teeth together, keeps going until Silver is laughing instead, the sound of it travelling with the wind rolling off the ocean. The vibrations rumble against Flint's lips as he kisses the jut of Silver's chin, noses his way down his neck, presses his open mouth to Silver's pulse _—_ alive, alive,  _alive—_ shifts down the length of Silver's body and removes his belt, tosses it over his shoulder guns and knives and all.

"You're awfully eager," Silver says, and Flint would glare at him, maybe, if Silver's own voice weren't so fucking ruined it's barely a voice. So in lieu of an answer he tackles the laces of Silver's trousers, and Silver immediately plants his foot on the ground, rising up so that Flint can roll back onto his heels and push them down, and just like that Silver's cock is in front of him; hard and flushed and _—_

"Jesus Christ," Flint blurts, unthinking, and Silver's head snaps up in alarm. 

"What?" 

"You're _—"_ Flint grips him in his hand and Silver instantly groans, loud. It is evident that he’s trying to stay focused through it, however, as a moment later he rears fully onto his elbows to ask, slightly desperate; 

" _What_? It's a cock, Captain, why are you _—Christ—why are you making that face at it_?"  

"It's just _.” What the fuck. “_ I didn't know you were _—"_

Truthfully, Flint doesn't know what he's trying to say. He doesn't know why he's asking, or at any rate why it matters; though he has some notion of what this means, of course. He'd heard of the practice, had always thought it a religious thing. It was uncommon in England. Uncommon enough that he'd never actually seen one in all his years in the navy, let alone touched one. And it was certainly, _undoubtedly_ uncommon enough in London such that it rendered the boy's home, Whitechapel _—_ all of it, the whole story he told the crew _—_ a lie.  

That's not what bothers Flint. Plenty of men lied about their pasts upon their arrival in Nassau; plenty were running from things they preferred not to talk about. The more puzzling aspect of this is: Silver is the least religious person Flint has ever met. They've never had a direct conversation about it _—_ the same way they've never had a direct conversation about  _anything_ —but he knows enough of Silver to know that much. It is completely at odds with everything else about him, and _that_ iswhat is truly troubling.

Completely distracted now, Flint looks at Silver again, his expression unschooled and unguarded, and he can tell the moment the penny drops.

Silver's face falls. "I'm _not_ ," he says, through his teeth as though it pains him to say. "I mean _—_ I was, at one point, I suppose. I'm not anymore. I haven't been for a long time." 

"Oh," Flint says, not moving his hand an inch. "I see." 

A beat passes. The sea roars in the distance; Flint finally settles on a question. 

"Did it hurt?" 

"Did it _—_ " Silver stares at him, puzzled, and then it hits: he turns his eyes skyward with a relieved chuckle. "No, no it didn't. Well, it might have, I guess. I was too young. I don't remember. They usually do it at infancy _,_  you see,before you're really able to register the fact that a strange man is lopping the skin off your cock." 

"Oh," Flint says again, with a sympathetic wince. "That's good, I suppose." 

Another moment of silence. Flint opens his mouth to voice his next question _—who are you, who are you, who are you_ , is the one his mind is _screaming_ at him to ask _—_ when Silver abruptly rears up and slides his tongue past Flint's lips. All that was running through Flint's head a moment ago promptly flies out of the fucking window as Silver starts rutting up against him, fucking slowly into Flint's fist.

"It works just fine," Silver murmurs, and takes advantage of Flint's momentary daze to knock him backwards into the sand. He pulls his trousers up with one hand and surges forward, "If that's what you were wondering." 

"Hmm," Flint says, into Silver's ridiculous fucking hair, watching Silver kiss down his chest, "I was. Wondering." 

Silver laughs again against Flint's hip. "Well," he nudges Flint's knees open and settles in between his legs, "Let's put your mind at ease, shall we?" 

"What, here?" Flint looks around at the empty clearing. "Who's being eager now?" 

" _Me_. Although you did just spend all this time interrogating me about my cock when you could have been doing _something else with it_ ," Silver says pointedly, making short work of Flint's laces, his rings getting caught in the strings, "And since you seem to be so curious _—_ "

"I am," Flint says, and takes Silver by his wrist; their eyes meet again. "About  _you_. I thought that was clear."

A strange expression crosses Silver's face, then. It moves through him like ink through water _—_ and it's gone so quickly that Flint can't catch it _—_ in no time at all it is replaced by one that is far more palatable, measured. "Ask me then," he says. 

Startled, Flint rises up on his elbows. "What?" 

"Ask me," Silver repeats, weaving his hands over Flint's stomach and resting his chin on it. "Ask me whatever it is you are dying to ask." 

 _Who are you_ , nags in Flint's head, relentless. He settles on something easier. "You're Jewish?"  

"Yes," Silver says instantly, and in the same breath says, " _No_. Depends on what you consider faith to be. I am no longer who I was, the same way you're no longer a navy man. The same way this island is no longer British, and never really was. The same way we are both of us thieves and murderers, even though somehow we are not." 

Something sinks in Flint's gut; it feels like disappointment. "That is _not_ an answer." 

"Yes, it is. You are allowed to ask me whatever you want just as I am allowed to answer as I please." Silver doesn't look upset, just resigned, as though he expected Flint's response. His face softens, his mouth downturned. "I'm not lying. I need you to know that. The most truthful answer I can give you is the one I just gave." He pauses, and just like that the expression is back; it has Flint's insides curling with a kind of grief he isn't sure he can define. "Is that enough?" 

 _No_ , Flint thinks.  _Yes_ , he thinks. 

“All right,” he says. His fingers find their way into Silver’s hair, twining in it, nails scratching at Silver's scalp in an effort to soothe. Silver waits for a moment, searching Flint’s face, before he leans into it, turning fully to kiss Flint’s palm. 

“All right,” he says, and it sounds, incredibly, like  _thank you._

The sentiment lasts for maybe two seconds. Silver suddenly grins at him, bright and disarming, like a fucking sun flare, "Now," he says, throwing his hair out of his face, "Let me see yours." 

Caught off guard, Flint laughs. "I suppose it's only fair." He takes Silver by the ear and pulls him up until their bodies are aligned, until Flint can kiss him again; properly, with purpose.

When Flint _does_ show him,Silver laughs and laughs and laughs. (“He’s trapped!” Silver says, feigning panic, “I have to save him.”)

And Flint—if he’d lived for a thousand years, if he’d lived fucking  _forever_ —would never have thought that somebody laughing at his _cock_ would be endearing. But it is. It patently, undeniably is. 

**Author's Note:**

> me, still crying: i'm so sorry


End file.
